


Generosity

by JamOnToast



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Choking, Dirty Talk, Edging, F/M, Hair-pulling, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Spit Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, all the good stuff y'know?, but this is mainly pwp, degradation kink, frank goes commando because of course he does, growling and grunting instead of talking, more plot than necessary, references to kandahar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamOnToast/pseuds/JamOnToast
Summary: The five (or more) things Frank does while he fucks you, and the one time he does something different.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 85





	Generosity

**Author's Note:**

> cross posted on my tumblr @pumpkin-stars  
> this is set in the middle of s1e8 of the punisher, and some dialogue is taken from it but not much

He’s not the most vocal person you’ve ever met. In fact, over the course of your acquaintance you’d learnt to decipher entire paragraphs from the smallest grunts he gave off. He could do the same for you. There were days where you’d sit in almost-silence, watching the city from above, his heavy leather coat somehow making its way onto your shoulders as you shared a thermos of (quite frankly abysmal) coffee, watching bad guys making shady deals as you huddled up together against the cold.

He knows when he needs to wrap his arm around your shoulders, giving you an extra source of heat (is he _ever_ cold?), and you know when his legs start cramping from sitting still for too long, nudging him in the ribs with your elbow and prompting him to change position, eyes never leaving whatever you’re witnessing. You know when he’s tired, in pain, hungry… Each grunt or heavy exhale slightly different depending on his emotions (though he would deny the existence of any emotion besides anger if you pushed).

He was reluctant to let you in at first. You were just some small fry vigilante, in way over your head, just trying to protect people from harm. There was one too many muggings going unreported in your area - the final push being your own, then your rescue… _Red_ , as Frank called him, had dropped out of the sky, beaten up the waste of space asshole who tried to take your purse, then disappeared… leaving you alone with an unconscious thug and in need of a hospital visit.

A month later the same asshole found you again.

You’d had a black eye for weeks, but the first experience had taught you to be more prepared, and the tiny switchblade hidden between your fingers had caught the guy’s jugular before he knew it was coming. Unlike _Red_ , you had no qualms about actually taking out the trash.

That was the night you met.

Frank had been on his way home (if he could call it home) when he’d heard you swearing (see also: panicking) in an alleyway, his protective chivalrous streak going into overload as he approached you, noticing the body at your side and the blood on your hands. He’d come at you, machine gun hidden behind his back, his broad, tall, purely _giant_ body curling in on itself to make himself seen much smaller, less threatening.

“It’s okay.” He’d said, calming you down in minutes, beating the man a little more to make sure his signature was on the body, assuring you that they’d assume it was his kill and add it to his ever-growing body count. (Of the thirty seven counts of murder he’d be charged with, he was only guilty of thirty six)…

When he’d walked you home, the fluorescent street lamps showing his beaten and bloodied face and the white skull on his chest, he’d expected more fear. When you didn’t make a move to run away, and instead invited him in for coffee and a shower, he’d been impressed. The first time he’d killed a man, he hadn’t slept for days, but either this wasn’t your first rodeo or you were better at handling it than him…

He’d left his number - a burner phone - and instructions to call if you needed help in _that type’a situation_ ever again… And when you’d phoned the next night, woken by nightmares, sobbing down the line, he’d appeared on your fire escape to calm you down.

So began your unconventional friendship.

His life was a lonely one, and so was yours. And as time drew on, you offered each other some comfort, some… respite from the harshness of the world. You knew some first aid (what you didn’t know was easily googled), and Frank came to you more nights than not, getting a couple of band aids and bandages, muscle rub, a few stitches, and the occasional “you need to go to the hospital”s (he never did). In return, you got someone to talk to, just rambling on about whatever you’d done that day, distracting him from pain and letting your anxieties out on someone who was willing to listen.

Not that ‘that bitch at work’ really compared to ‘that drug gang that killed my family’, but Frank was genuine when he said he liked listening to you talk. And if he offered to scare your irritating colleague on her way home one night and tell her to leave you alone, that was his idea and his alone.

Then he got caught, put on trial, sent to prison for cleaning up the streets… He escaped, killed (what he thought at the time was) the rest of his enemies…

He died.

You’d hoped it was faked. But several months alone without his comforting warmth had hardened you to a lot of things. One night, you’d been watching from a roof top uptown as some assholes attempted to murder someone just for fun. You’d stopped them with a round of warning shots, Frank’s _Old Faithful_ heavy in your hands as you hid in the shadows and watched them run.

When you woke up to find the gun gone, a blanket thrown haphazardly over the back of your couch, a used mug in the sink, and a note on the pillow beside you… _thanks for taking care of her_ … You’d stayed up all night, waiting for him, and when he appeared on your fire escape, like he had so long ago, face obscured by a bushy beard, you’d welcomed him with open arms and more than a few tears.

That was a while back, though. You’d fallen into a new rhythm since - you stayed out of the violence, mostly. Kept to the shadows above the action using the skills Frank taught you. You would take out his enemies from a distance when they tried to sneak up on him while he was distracted with bludgeoning another into the concrete. He didn’t want you getting hurt, wouldn’t stand for it. The thought of someone else - someone innocent (despite the actions you’d taken for yourself and now for him) - getting injured because of his _work_ …

You were content with it. Being up close to the violence wasn’t something you’d enjoyed that first night, and, even if you technically had more blood on your hands (though really just gunshot residue) because of your friendship with _the Punisher_ , you still didn’t enjoy getting covered in blood in the way Frank seemed to no matter how quickly his fights ended. If you later happened to get smeared in some by proxy, then it was most certainly worth it, and you could always shower it off.

The one time you could count on Frank being vocal was after a fight, once you’d got home safe and he’d set aside your guns, shed his body armour, his heavy coat, your jumper, two pairs of chunky boots… After you’d checked him over to make sure nothing had been broken by his strenuous activities, giving him the go ahead for another bout of adrenaline fuelled action… Whatever mood you were both in, no matter how primal or soft, when you took each other on the flimsy bed, he’d talk. Whispered praises - _so fuckin good princess_ \- laughed out taunts - _you desperate, girl? you really that cockhungry, huh?_ \- and oftentimes a mix of both - _you bein’ a gorgeous little slut for me, princess. Takin’ it so well, like a cheap whore._

Again, his main method of communication is grunts and groans, each of you understanding what every slight difference meant, every huff of air, every hitch of breath… He gets so deep sometimes, it’s almost like you can feel him in your throat (and you have plenty of experience with that), but when he’s above you, around you, one hand next to your head bearing most of his weight, the other on your stomach, pressing your back against his chest, his hips rolling in a slow rhythm that with anyone else wouldn’t feel anywhere near as good… he’s slow but he’s rough, and his mouth at your neck makes little puffs of air brush over your skin with every thrust, the same noises he makes in the middle of a fist-fight - the grunts and the huffs and the growls - the pained moans replaced with gasps of pleasure as you clench around him, your own hands moving to the same position as his, leaving little crescent moons all over the wrist on your abdomen as that final slow, sharp, deep thrust tips you over the edge…

He’s an absolute fiend with his tongue, always so determined to taste every inch of you, delving inside you and bringing you to the edge while he’s still mostly dressed, somehow shrugging his arms out of his clothes while his face stays buried in you, replacing his tongue with a finger or two as he one-handedly rips the bloodied t-shirt from his neck. The sounds he makes… They’d be fucking disgusting in any other context. Sounds you’re sure his mother would have cuffed him round the head for if he made them while eating soup or something. Slurps and groans and the occasional _fuck, tastes so good princess_ … cause damn does that man know how to get you wet. Minimal effort for maximum results, once again his fighting style mirroring his actions in the bedroom.

The man was made to eat pussy and throw punches, and _holy shit_ if he doesn’t deserve a medal in both…

He’s big, and he’s thick, like a wall of pure muscle. And his tongue? That’s just one big thick muscle. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen a tongue thicker. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how to move it, teasing every inch of you before pushing inside. And the way his nose brushes your clit when he moves at _just the right angle_ …

He’d told you once, after a particularly bad fight, with blood pouring from his nose and into his mouth… He’d spoken through it, laughing as he told you the story of the first time he’d broken his nose as a kid, neither of you caring as his raspy voice sprayed your face with specks of blood and spit, both of you grinning as you patched him up. He was a weasley kid, until his growth spurt, had been picked on ‘cause of his large ears and nose, right up until he’d started to fight back, taught himself how to punch and built up his muscle, went after the _little bastards_ who picked on him - three against one these days was no trouble for him, but when he was just starting out? Well, they had more reason to mock his nose after that, having been the ones to knock it out of shape, the little dent in his dorsum still visible even now, even after several far worse breaks.

You’ve heard a lot of his stories.

His torso is littered with scars, and in the post-orgasm comedown, he lets you pick one, and he tells you _ahh that was Bill during basic training, fuckin asshole thought it was funny_ , and once or twice _don’t ask me ‘bout that one princess, I don’t wanna remember that_. There’s your favourite story - the tiny scar on the back of his hand, only noticeable to someone who knows it’s there, from when Frankie Jr broke a window with a baseball and they worked all afternoon to clear the mess and replace the glass before Maria and Lisa got home… Your least favourite story - one he only told you after a nightmare. Only one of several scars he’d got from _fuckin Kandahar_. He was especially brutal in the next fight after that, the nightmare dragging up several memories he’d rather have repressed for the rest of his life. You didn’t ask for details, didn’t really want them, but you knew the scar came from a serrated knife, from a fight that got way too up close and personal. He was grateful you didn’t push, showed you just how much the following day after the adrenaline wore off.

He’s a giver, not a taker. Even when he’s got you pinned beneath him, pressed into the mattress, only _atoms_ between it and you, you and him… When his hand grips your throat as his hips pound, rocking the bed so hard you’d fear it might break if you could get enough air to think… He knows what it’s like to choke the life out of someone, to crush a windpipe and watch as his opponent’s eyes turn red as the blood vessels burst beneath their corneas. He can tell when his grip goes from just right to too tight, he can tell when he needs to let go and when you need him to keep going, to let you let go… And he gives it, without question, his grip only loosening when your eyes roll back in your head or when you punch him in the arm hard enough to break through the chemical concoction known informally as lust.

Even when he’s pounding into you with no semblance of rhythm, just fucking his frustrations out and into you, he’s still giving. There’s not a fuck goes by where his massive fingers don’t find your clit or your tits, stroking and teasing and holding as tight as he can, every movement paired with a _huh, gah, uhh, or fffu-_ there aren’t always words, but his meanings are crystal clear.

And the times where he doesn’t want roughness… After a nightmare when he just needs to hold someone and feel something kind - not love, it’s not that kind of relationship, just… something gentler than he’s used to. When you know it’s your turn to give back to him, to make him feel good despite all the shit… he’s still the one giving you more, baring himself to you and letting you see him vulnerable, like a cat showing off it’s belly in some weird display of trust - that instinctive gesture that says _I feel safe with you_ … You’re on top during most of those moments, and he lies back, chest heaving as you rock against him, his hands either on your hips or your tits, leaving bruises even when he holds you lightly. ‘Cause even when he’s gentle, he’s still rough around the edges.

You make do with a single bed. It’s easy, really… Even if you were as tall as him, he still makes you feel small in his arms. He’s built like a brick shithouse - lying flat on the mattress leaves only an inch either side of his arms, so you’ve both grown accustomed to cuddling up together, half of you on top of him, his arms caging you in. They make you feel safe, and you act as some kind of security blanket, reminding him that - even if shit’s going wrong - he’s not alone.

It’s not love. It can’t be. You haven’t got time for love when you have Homeland and Whoever-The-Fuck-Else on your backs. In a different situation? If Frank hadn’t gone all vigilante and you hadn’t been mugged… if you’d met any other way, then yeah, love might’ve been possible. But not here. Not now.

You’re just fucking (and that’s better than nothing, isn’t it?).

It’s now, when you’re stuck inside the bunker, or whatever the hell _Micro_ calls his grimy little hideaway, when the skinny guy gets blackout drunk and makes sure you both know he’s well hung, that the wife who thinks he’s dead would never want to fuck Frank after experiencing his apparent horsecock… You share an amused glance with The Punisher, all too aware that any woman would be lucky to experience _Frank’s Castle_ (though you’ll never tell him you call it that). When David starts talking about going to Madani and Frank shuts him down, shuts him up and knocks him out with just one hit to the jaw… it’s the first time you’ve had a moment to yourselves for weeks.

“You miss sex?” David had asked.

Frank had scoffed “What d’you want me to say?” in some kind of non-committal answer, air shooting out of his nose in a laugh-that-wasn’t-a-laugh. You knew exactly what he meant.

_Yeah, you’re damn right we do._

Then David asked if he was an ass-man. “What’re you painting me with the ass brush for?” You let out a laugh. Frank knew exactly what you meant.

_You’re an everything kinda guy, Castle._

Then the mood turned. Then came “you’re a _psychopath_ ” and “there’s nothing but a _war_ inside you.”

It was lucky, you supposed, that David had pushed Frank just a little too far. If he hadn’t, you’d have had to fuck him on the roof, risked being caught with your pants down (quite literally), risked the cold New York breeze on the parts of you that no icy wind should ever touch… But that’s the furthest thing from happening now, and the passed-out form of your skinny ‘friend’ on the other side of the room doesn’t even cross your mind after Frank sets him down on his shitty mattress and comes back to yours, all dark and dangerous, predatory gaze staring you down as you sip from the whiskey bottle. The huff of air leaving his nose telling you everything:

_We got time._

You know you do. You’ve never been on the receiving end of one of Frank’s punches, but you’ve seen the damage they can do, tended the bruises and cuts his knuckles are almost constantly covered in, and you’re well aware that David won’t be waking up for at least an hour, and even then, he’s gonna be a bit out of it and have a pounding headache.

You don’t waste a second, setting the bottle down and pulling off your shirt in one movement, flinging it fuck-knows-and-who-cares where, Frank’s hoodie following. It takes two strides for him to reach you, his massive hands grabbing your hips and pulling you to him, his bruised lips sucking at your neck, teeth grazing the skin as he marks you as his in that primal alpha male way, your hands scratching red lines up his back on their way to his hair as your knees buckle under the assault on your neck.

It’ll hurt tomorrow, one giant bruise sucked into your flesh, replacing the one that only recently healed, matching the others littering your chest and inner thighs. You match Frank sometimes, his entire torso, his arms and legs, his back… they’re all covered in purple splotches, only one or two caused by your lips, most from various fights. The worst one - on his upper thigh - isn’t from a fight: he’d walked into the corner of David’s desk two days ago when he was semi-delirious from a head injury and lack of sleep (but if anyone asks it’s from Generic Bad Guy Number 12’s stupid plan to punch him in the thigh instead of the face).

His hands are roaming, trailing over your back, your sides, one comes up to palm your breast and the other sinks below to squeeze your ass. You follow his pattern with one hand (the other tugs on his short hair in encouragement - not that he needs it), nails dragging across the wide plains of muscle, trailing over the patterns of scars you’ve had memorised for months, sliding between his skin and his waistband, ever thankful for his predisposition to “forget” underwear each morning. He’s got a _fantastic_ ass - and he knows it.

His hands move again as his mouth finally moves from your neck, the both of you staring hungrily at the other for a moment before his lips collide with yours. The bruise coming on your neck? It’s not a patch on the one that’ll cover your lips. Trading breath, spit, and silent moans, it’s open-mouthed and hot, the feel of his tongue pushing its way past your own, you - as always - willing to let him in, let him take what he needs and give back all at once.

He lifts you by the hips, transporting you the three steps from the armchair to the bed in a move that originally had you clutching his arms in surprise and squeaking out a _don’t you fucking dare drop me_. Since then you’ve seen him carry a man bigger than he is (and over much greater distance), so any fright you felt at the move is gone. And the surprise? The shock at being suddenly lifted from the floor? That’s no surprise now. In fact, it’s more surprising if he _doesn’t_ pick you up and manhandle you towards whichever surface he wants to take you against.

He lays you down against the shitty mattress, both of you wincing at the shriek of metal against concrete as the force of you both landing sends it a few inches across the floor. If not for the metal that used to form part of a wall behind it, you’re both sure that the next - oh, thirty minutes? at _least_ \- would have you pushing the bed frame all the way across the room without even thinking about it.

He’s on you again, giving you a split second to remove your bra before his whole body lies atop you, mouth leaving marks wherever he pleases as he shucks off his pants, dragging yours down your legs a moment later, underwear following swiftly. You keen beneath him as his teeth graze a nipple, both his hands keeping you pinned down as they grip your thighs, leaving one breast completely neglected as his focus stays on that one nipple, his tongue circling for a moment before he swaps, nipping at you as he moves across your chest.

“Fuck, Frank…” Your hands are in his hair a moment later, pulling him off you reluctantly, “Just fuck me.”

He huffs, amused, and you can hear it again: _We got time._

You know you do. But _fuck,_ you don’t care if you’ve got a whole week alone with him, you just want him to do _something_.

“You desperate, princess?” He wonders, kissing and licking and nibbling his way down your stomach, one hand reaching up to hold yours together, your fingers straining to reach his hair as he grins up at you. “You begging me already?”

You whine, and he knows what you mean. _That’s not begging, you fucker._

He laughs, nipping at you again as his free hand moves to tease at your entrance, the unsaid _yet_ hanging over you both.

As one finger dips inside, his mouth finds its way to your clit, drawing small circles. His eyes are fixed on yours, both of you challenging the other to look away first. You don’t dare - the sight of him between your legs is incredible, his broad shoulders keeping your legs parted as his mouth works its wonders, the bruises on his face contrasting with his flushed skin and darkened eyes. The grip on your wrists tightens as he shifts, removing his finger from inside you - earning a buck of your hips - before he concedes defeat in your little staring contest, his eyes trailing to your centre as he licks his lips.

“No touchin’, y’hear?” He instructs, letting go of your wrists so he can hold one thigh in each hand, sweaty calloused palms against soft warm flesh. Your hips buck again as your hands fall to the mattress, gripping it tightly in anticipation. You know what’s coming. You can’t wait.

He just breathes for a moment, eyes fixed on your entrance, making you squirm as he takes his time.

“So fuckin’ wet.” He mumbles, a grin appearing as he moves towards you again. He takes no further action.

“Fuck sake, Frank.” You grumble, pressing your heels into his ribs as if he’s a horse and you’re the rider pushing him to go faster.

He laughs, “Right away, Princess,” and dives in.

It’s not the best angle. If you’d thought about it, you’d have moved the thin pillow from beneath your head to rest under your hips, but Frank manages.

He always finds a way to complete whatever mission he’s on. Even when he’s been beaten half to death he won’t go down until his target is equally injured (or worse), and here, now… he won’t stop giving you pleasure until you’re both equally sated and satisfied.

His tongue curls inside you, massaging your walls as he angles his head so his nose just about grazes your clit. Your grip tightens on the mattress as his tightens on your thighs, his moans cutting into you and sending vibrations right through you, your own filling the air around you, echoing through the mostly-abandoned building as your back arches.

He shifts again, concrete floor not the most comfortable thing to kneel on, and you pull the pillow from under your head, hitting him in the back with it as you bring it round to him.

He moves his mouth from you, earning a whining protest. “You want a naked pillow fight or somethin’?” He frowns, voice even deeper than usual.

“For your knees.” You clarify, breathless.

He grins, “Sweet’a you, princess, but I’m alright. ‘S not the worst place to be.”

He takes the pillow anyway, sliding it beneath him without another word, and returns his attention to you. You were already close, but now his hands are holding you up instead of pinning you down, and he’s at a much better angle than before. He licks up, entrance to clit, teases all those nerve endings for a moment, then moves back down, thick tongue thrusting in and out of you, groans and slurps and muffled curses emanating from him.

“Touch.” He pulls away long enough to instruct you, and one of your hands flies to your clit, running circles in time with his rhythm, shoulders baring most of your weight.

It doesn’t take long for you to buck into him, legs shaking and tense, back arched, voice hoarse, coaxed over the edge by a particularly well-aimed tongue. He helps you through your orgasm, lapping softly as you come down, panting hard, head thrown back.

“So good.” He pulls away, shit-eating grin on his face as he stares down at you, one arm lifting from your thigh to wipe his chin with the back of his hand.

You’re still coming down, only able to whimper as he steps back. A feeble protest… still not a beg though.

“Turn over, princess.” He instructs, one hand reaching for you, intent to roll you if you can’t manage it yourself.

It takes you a moment, a deep breath, but then you’re on all fours, head dropping to the mattress beneath as he touches you again, palming your ass as his knees knock your feet apart. He stands between your legs, his cock standing to attention, the tip just brushing against you _right where you need it most…_

“Frank…” You whine and okay, maybe you _are_ begging. Maybe you always were. You need him, you need something - anything. You’ve both been busy for too many weeks, both been waiting for this opportunity, for something he’s withheld for _too damn long_. It’s felt so long it’s almost like you’ve been punished for something you haven’t done… some imagined slight against him that’s left you both celibate for the better part of a month. But the Punisher only deals justice to people who’ve done wrong, and, well:

“You’re bein’ such a good girl for me, princess.” One hand leaves your ass. “I got ya.” And he’s guiding himself into you.

“F- fu- Frank, I-”

“So good, y’always take me so good.”

Even as your heart pounds in your ears, you can hear him breathing above you. His hands are roaming again, one kneading your hip, the other trailing up your spine as he edges forward, grip tightening as he rests a knee on the bed, changing the angle of his shallow thrusts.

A grunt, a tightened grip, a light tug on your hair, a sharp thrust. You’re knocked forward with the force of him, hands gripping the edge of the bed frame, clinging on for dear life as he moves your body however he pleases, every breath coming out with a noise just _so intrinsically Frank_ , prompting your own noises in response.

He moves again, leaning over you, sucking another mark into your shoulder as his hands come to rest on top of yours, the metal frame once again scraping across the floor under your momentum. As his teeth sink into the already-sensitive spot where your neck meets your torso, you can’t help but cry out - it’s painful, there’s no doubt of that, and you’re pretty sure that those same teeth have bitten off an ear and quite possibly bitten out a throat, but this act isn’t a violent one, it’s Frank showing you respect, he’s showing you that he knows you’re not fragile, you’re not some delicate thing he needs to protect, you’re an equal, a _really really close_ equal.

“Feel so good, princess.” He groans into your neck, hips still pistoning, keeping an exact rhythm. InOutInOutInOut… He’s got that military precision, he can keep time just as well as any highly trained musical conductor, but he puts it to a different use, just hitting the right spot over and over and over and over…

“Not yet, princess.” He instructs, “Don’t you cum just yet.”

“Fra-” you gasp, swallowing hard as he shifts again, one hand coming to clasp around your throat, squeezing gently, just enough to make your eyes roll back (even more) as his hot breaths hit your ear. The hand at your hip moves round, fingers finding your clit, and you clench around him, doing everything in your power to hold back your orgasm. He halts his hips and his hand, and you cry out, the build up coming to nothing, just pants and gasps and a cry that says _what the fuck Frank?_ and a deep laugh breathed into your neck that says _sorry princess, couldn’t help it._

“Love teasin’ ya.” He apologises, not at all sorry, and turns your head with the hand still at your throat. You stare at him, as much as you can from the limited angle, eyes flickering to his lips as you think he might give you an actually apologetic kiss, but no.

His thumb shifts, catching your chin and tapping it twice.

You roll your eyes, grinning for a moment, then open your mouth. The thumb slips in, and he holds your tongue down, dick twitching inside you as he spits. You swallow it easily, and he grins back at you, taking his hand from your throat as he moves his hips again (at last). 

He shifts again, pulling you upwards easily, holding you tightly to him. You can feel his heart beating rapidly against your back, sure that your own is even faster, both your chests heaving as he bucks up into you. His hands fall to your tits, and yours go to his hair, each of you finding your favourite places to hold onto even with this new and untried position. He gets so deep like this, your head falling back onto his shoulder, his chin resting on yours. He watches you intently, and if this was a year ago, when you still lived in an apartment and not an abandoned and decrepit building, you’re sure you’d have a mirror in front of you, showing you both the undoubtedly fantastic sight… him disappearing inside of you, both your blissed out expressions, his giant hands palming away at you, the way you _know_ his eyes roll backward when you tug his hair _just right…_

“Fuck-“ you gasp, eyes flying open - _when did they close?_ \- as the fingers of one hand pinch your nipple, the other rubbing small circles on your clit.

“You take me so good,” He repeats - its a well-used mantra that you doubt you’ll ever get tired of hearing, “Fuck, such a filthy princess, my dirty beautiful slut.”

You whine, “Yours… Frank, please, fuck, please let me-“

“Cum.”

And you do.

His hips don’t stop, even as you turn to jelly in his arms, though he does slow, edging himself in recompense for teasing you before.

As you catch your breath, he slips out of you, turning you over so you’re on your back once more. You smile dazedly at him, lifting your head as he grabs the pillow from the floor, dusting it off before he lays it down for you (not that there’s much point - there’s not an inch of this building that’s not grimy in some way, and that includes both of your sweat-slicked bodies). He’s slower now, softer in action if not in _condition_ , aware that you’re a little bit sensitive after two orgasms, even if he’s harder than ever. He’s slowed his tempo, lightened his approach - instead of that rough staccato he’s rolling his hips, a steady and constant rolling legato that ebbs and flows and swells. He knows how to work your body perfectly, treating you roughly but with care like he would a weapon, then caringly but with rough hands like he does his missing-stringed guitar.

The necklace he wears dangles between you, his wife’s ring swinging back and forth like some weird hypnosis trick (as if you’d need anything artificial to make you do whatever he wanted). It’s sweet, you know as much as he does about what really happened to his family, and you’re fully aware that no matter what you have together you’re not Maria and never will be.

He looks down at you. You look up at him… He takes the ring between his fingers and moves it around the chain, tucking it behind him to rest against his back, keeping it - keeping Maria and the kids - out of mind as you chase pleasure together. The memory of her rests against his chest each and every day, he doesn’t need her here and now. He doesn’t need anything in this moment except you.

He moves again, caging you in, hips working slowly, forearms resting either side of your head as his hands interlock above you. It’s intimate.

Your hands move across him, around him, from his back to his chest, trailing over his muscles lightly as he continues to rock against you with a look in his eyes you don’t think you’ve ever seen before.

He leans in.

You put it down to the whiskey - you’re both about a quarter of a bottle in, and even though Frank practically lives on whiskey and coffee (and the occasional microwave dinner), you’re sure the alcohol is getting to him more than usual.

Cause that’s the only explanation you have for feeling his lips on yours.

You don’t kiss. Not like this, at least.

Sure, you’ve made out numerous times, hungrily pressed your lips together during the throws of passion, kissed his cheek when he’s gone out on a not-quite-suicide mission… but you don’t usually kiss so tenderly during your softer moments.

It’s different, but this is far from unwelcome, and the heat of his forearms either side of your face, paired with the warmth of his lips over yours and grouped with the weight of him above you and the presence of him inside you has you whimpering into his mouth, returning the kiss with fervour and emotions you weren’t sure you had but are now certain you feel for him.

He pulls back, not far - if you tilt your head slightly you’ll be kissing again - and he lets out a sound you’ve not heard from him before, a mix between a whimper and a grunt, a confession of sorts - and a promise. You swallow hard, cup his cheek with your hand.

“Me too.” You whisper, kissing him again.

Somewhere in that haze of emotion you get closer and closer, the two of you chasing a peak without even realising. He never stopped moving his hips, and you couldn’t stop yourself meeting him on every thrust… and it’s when you release together, in that utterly cliched perfect moment that you stop kissing and just stare at each other, his eyes looking into yours, past yours, into your mind and your soul and your _heart_.

He makes that noise again. You understand him perfectly…

_I love you._

The only thing that could ruin the moment? David coming round earlier than you’d thought. Wandering over to you as you lie there lost in your own world, breaking the content silence you’re existing in to ask

“You want me to delete that CCTV?”

Then you’re laughing. There’s only so many men who can look threatening and murderous when they’re stark bollock naked. David quickly finds out that Frank is one of them.


End file.
